


Fearfully and Wonderfully Made

by dorkilysoulless (custodian)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Small Town, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Coming Out, Ex-Con Dean, First Kiss, Gay Castiel, M/M, Mention of past relationships, Other, Religious Castiel, Religious struggles, Starting Over, Suicide mention, bad life choices, how nice of AO3 to have tags for both of those things, rated mature because of themes not porn, yes it's THAT matt pike
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 20:03:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10520868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/custodian/pseuds/dorkilysoulless
Summary: Dean moved to Surlow to start over, and he's got a pretty good thing going: a place of his own, a truck that runs, and a job at Harvelle's General Store.  It's a good life, with good friends and predictable routines.  Around here he's just another friendly face.Specifically, he's the first friendly face that Castiel Krushnic -- formerly of Chicago and Boston, and definitely not prepared for rural Nebraska -- meets on his way to move into the old Sinclair place.And, well, you can't blame a guy for being helpful...





	

Dean’s hands are practiced with a utility knife; he’s into each box quick, pulling out cans and bottles and jars so he can push the week’s dry grocery shipment onto the general store’s shelves.  The extras go back onto his cart for storage.  Boxes get broken down for bundling.

There’s a rhythm to his life.  Eight to four, five days a week.  Produce is tomorrow.  The weekend is mostly restocking and keeping shop.  Monday he loads up his or Ellen’s truck with the past week’s recyclables and drives them down to the center.  Tuesday and Wednesday are his days off.  

Once or twice a month he drives up to Sioux Falls to see Bobby, and work on the old Impala Dad left behind.  Some weeks he calls Lee Chambers up, asks if he needs any help with the horses.  Mostly he does whatever sounds good.  He’s got a job and a little bungalow out behind the Roadhouse, a television, and a shelf full of books.  

It’s as good a place as any to rebuild. After a couple years, some of the locals have even stopped calling him the new guy.  He’s grateful to Ellen for giving him work and a place to stay.  A lot of guys like him don’t get that lucky.

He finishes up the last box -- a big pack of chicken-flavored noodle cups -- and checks his watch: fifteen to nine.  Enough time to get the trash and cardboard done and sweep before he opens up shop.  

# # # 

Nebraska is terrifying.

It’s not as if he’s never left the city.  There are all kinds of reasons to take a day trip out of Chicago, and Boston before that, and he’s never really wanted for the means to do it.  He has done rustic.  He has gone wilderness camping.  He has experienced...rurality?  Is that a word?

He’s never driven through this much of it.

No amount of daytripping or Google Mapping could have prepared him for the sheer expanse of nothing he’s been driving through. Other than Omaha and Lincoln, there’s a lot of open space.  It’s even more pronounced when he leaves the interstate for the state highways that take him up to Surlow.

The total lack of cell service once he leaves the Interstate takes him completely by surprise.  After a fruitless hour of driving around in hopes that the right roads will just present themselves, he admits defeat.  

Which is how he finds himself leaning against his car outside of a brick building in what passes for a town square, waiting for Harvelle’s General Store to open because he can’t find his own damn house. 

The square isn’t much to look at.  It’s a single block with three buildings in the center: a historic courthouse that’s been converted into a local history museum, a modern courthouse, and a Sheriff's Department building that also seems to house the county jail.  The rest of the square is a mix of older and newer buildings.  He counts a bank, a post office, and a handful of shops, with a couple of cafes and a bail bondsman for variety.

He startles when he hears the click of the General Store’s lock.  He doesn’t get a close look at the guy who flips the  _ Sorry, We’re Closed _ sign to  _ We’re OPEN _ , but he takes it as his cue to push off of his Camry and go ask for directions.  

The bell on the door jingles as he pulls it open.  The store isn’t as bright as a big-box store, but it’s tidy.  The fixtures are probably older than he is.  The signs are all hand-made.  He spots a single till, with liquor and cigarettes on display behind the counter.  Most of the front of the store is groceries, though he spots a magazine rack and some basic automotive supplies along the outer wall.  

“Mornin,” a voice calls out from somewhere out of view, over by the soda fountains.  Castiel hears a coffee maker kick on.  “Coffee just went on so it’ll be a minute if you need some.”

“Thanks,” Castiel says, uncertain.  He waits by the counter and spins the Zippo display, astonished by the variety of designs featuring American flags and eagles.  

“Finding everything okay?” the man asks, standing up and stepping into view.  He’s dressed in faded jeans and a black t-shirt that shows off a lean, solid build.  His hair is short and sun bleached brown.  He smiles, though his eyes are cautious.  “Need me to unlock the lighter case?”

“Actually, I was hoping you could give me directions.”  

“I can try.”  He saunters up to the other side of the counter.  “Where you headed?”

Castiel pulls the address up on his phone, slides it across the counter.  The man blinks at it, gives him a curious look.  Up close, his eyes are a sharp, clear green.  He’s got freckles.

“You’re the guy who bought the old Sinclair place?”

He rubs at the back of his neck.  He feels a distinct heat in his cheeks.  “Yeah.”

“Huh.”  The cashier -- shopkeeper? -- reaches under the counter for a piece of scrap paper and a pencil.  He’s got a tattoo on the back of his right hand: five small, blurry dots arranged like the pips on a die.  “Okay, so this is the main road, and you’re here…”

The map takes form while Castiel listens, making an effort to pay more attention to the directions than the guy giving them.  It’s surprisingly difficult.  

“...and the driveway should be right across the bridge.  It’s one-lane, but there aren’t a lot of people driving out that way.”  

“Good to know.”  

“I’m Dean, by the way,” he says, and extends his hand.  Castiel takes it.

“Castiel Krushnic.”

“Nice name.”  Dean cracks a grin.  He lets go of Castiel’s hand and reaches for the pencil again.  He writes his name in clear block capitals, and then a phone number before sliding the paper across the counter.  “Tell you what, Cas.  You get lost again, call me.”

“Thanks,” he says.  He’s only just met this man, and he’s in the middle of rural Nebraska, so it’s probably not a flirtation.  Even so, Castiel’s heart beats a little faster the whole way back to his car.  

# # #

The day is slow -- Thursdays are only busy if they fall on the third of the month, when the Social Security checks come in -- so Dean spends a lot of his shift reading and tinkering with things around the store.  By the time Ellen shows up to relieve him, he’s about halfway through the newspaper crossword.

“Hey, what’s a four letter word for ‘strange meat found in London pies’?  I was gonna go with people, but--”

“Cats?”

He snorts, puts down his pencil, slides the paper in next to the register.  “New guy came through today.  One who bought the Sinclair place.”

“Squirrely little city guy?  Lollipop?”

“No, different guy.  Six foot or so, kinda broad.”  He doesn’t mention the bit about how looking into the guy’s eyes felt like looking up at the sky on a clear summer day.  “Drove up in a late model Toyota.  Illinois plates.”  

“Huh.”  Ellen takes the keys from Dean, checks the till, and takes over his post on the stool.  “You think he’s figured out he can’t get someone to bring him a pizza yet?”

“Pretty sure his phone wasn’t working as it is.  Had to ask me for directions out there.”

Ellen grins, leans on the counter.  “Well, someone’s gonna have to give him a proper welcome.  Grab him a six pack, maybe a bag of burgers from the Roadhouse...”

Dean sighs and rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling enough for Ellen to know he’s putting on a show.  “I’ll grab my jacket.”

# # #

Castiel doesn’t see the house at first, thanks to a stand of scrubby trees along the road.  What he does spot is a battered mailbox with the name “SINCLAIR” painted on it.  He takes the gravel drive on faith, then lets out a soft string of profanities when the farmhouse comes into view.  

He’s seriously considering murdering Gabriel.  

Instead, he parks his car in front of a small brick outbuilding that’s probably meant to be the garage, grabs his messenger bag, and walks a large circle around the house itself.  

It’s old -- nineteenth century at a guess -- and while the windows are all intact and nothing seems to be leaning at odd angles, the place is in visible need of care.  The yard is overgrown, the porch strewn with leaves, and the dingy white paint is peeling in places.

He wipes his feet on the faded welcome mat and unlocks the door.  

The interior is bare and well-worn, but it’s got potential.  The floors are oiled hardwood, the walls papered in floral motifs.  The stairway is a little narrow, but the upstairs ceilings look good, and nothing smells musty in a wet sort of way.  Even the cellar seems dry.  Also, the utilities are on.

Castiel finds a packet of documents from Gabriel on the kitchen counter: the mortgage, water and electric accounts, a couple of maps.  For good or ill, this place is his now.

It doesn’t take long to unload the car -- clothes and bedding, basic toiletries, an inflatable mattress, his laptop bag -- and he’s at loose ends.  He starts to reach for his phone, then sighs when he remembers it’s currently an expensive paperweight.  

Notebook it is, then.  

Castiel spends the morning making lists of things he knows he’ll need, measuring rooms, and working out how he’ll arrange his things when the movers arrive.  Lunch is a pot of ramen, which he eats out of the saucepan with a plastic fork.  Afterward he takes the maps and explores the land around and behind the house, trying to figure out how much of it is his.  

He makes a mental note to upgrade the lawnmower on his shopping list to something he can ride on.

Also, boots.  He’s never seen this much mud.

He’s on the stoop taking off his shoes and socks when a rusty blue and white truck comes rolling down the gravel driveway.  It eases to a stop, and then the driver’s side door opens.  A familiar face pops up over the top of the window.

“Ellen and I figured you could use a care package,” Dean -- the man from the general store -- calls out to him from the cab of the truck.  He reaches over for something in the floorboards, then hops down from the cab with a six pack in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other.  “You like burgers, right?”

# # #

Turns out yeah, the guy likes burgers.  Beer, too.  Lucky for everyone Dean thought to have another six pack in the truck.  

“So who’s Ellen?” Cas asks.  He’s leaned up against the post where the porch rail starts, still barefoot and muddy from the knees down.  “Girlfriend?”

Dean stifles a laugh, shakes his head.  “My boss.  My dad knew her husband when they were in the service together.  Bill died a few years back, about the time I needed work.  Between Ash and me, we just about replace him.”

“Ash?”

“He helps keep an eye on the Roadhouse.  Does most of the orders for it and the store.  He’s, uh, better in the back than he is with people.”  Dean finishes his bottle, reaches for a new one.  “What about you?  Got a Mrs. Illinois on her way to keep you company out here?”

Cas makes a mirthless sound that isn’t quite a laugh.  He looks down at his hands, fidgets a little with the place a ring might have been.  “Uh, no.”  

“Sore subject?”

“Long story,” Cas says.  “But no, it’s just me.  I needed to get out of the city for a while, figure some things out.”

“I hear that,” Dean says, and raises his bottle as if to toast.

They clink the necks and drink.  

# # #

Castiel barely manages to clear away his air mattress before the movers arrive, and he spends the better part of Friday morning making sure things go to their right places: bedroom, office, living room, kitchen.  

The contents of his Chicago apartment don’t come close to filling the empty space, but a scattering of boxes is a vast improvement over empty rooms, and it’s good to see his bed again.

Armed with his list, he makes the hour drive south to Kearney for essentials.  One new phone, a Target shopping binge, and probably too much Chinese buffet later, he almost feels like himself.

He shoots Dean a text --  _ it’s cas, my phone works now --  _ and starts the car.  

Dean texts back a  _ good times _ , then follows it up with  _ hey, do you like mexican food? _

Which is how his evening goes from “unbox things alone and get an early night” to “here, let me make dinner, and help hang your flat screen, and get the surround sound set up so I can loan you Deadpool, seriously Cas, how have you not seen that yet?”

By the end of the night, Castiel has a living room worth living in, a full belly (and sink), and a fully-fledged, ill-advised crush on Dean Winchester.

# # #

Jo comes down with a stomach thing on Saturday morning, which Dean finds out about when Ellen swings by the store to ask how he feels about tending bar at the Roadhouse that night.  

“Yeah, sure,” he says without hesitating.  “Glad to help.”

Ellen claps him on the shoulder and gives it a squeeze.  “Thanks, Dean.  I knew I could count on you.”  

Dean doesn’t let his face fall until she’s fully out of sight.   

Truth is, he’s conflicted.  He tells himself it’s because working bar on Saturday means he’ll only get about four hours of sleep before he has to open the store Sunday morning, but he knows that’s not it.

He shoots Cas a text, asks him how his day is going.

 

_ Mostly have a bedroom now.  You? _

_ Picked up a bar shift.  No sleep but the tips are good.   _

_ Also coffee. _

_ If you come in tomorrow, you can watch me drink it straight from the pot. _

_ Pretty sure that’s a health code thing. _

_ Only if I get caught. _

 

They end up chatting most of the afternoon.  By the time Matt arrives -- with an actual goddamn  _ tarantula _ in a little plastic carrier -- the weight of disappointment in his guts is gone.  Hell, he feels pretty good.  

“That thing have a name?” he asks, crouching down to get a look at the tarantula when Matt sets it down on the counter.

“Alfie.”

Dean squints at it.  It doesn’t move.  “Well, tell Alfie to clean up the coolers before you two head out tonight.”  

Matt laughs and Dean tosses him the keys.  If the children are our future, the future’s gonna be damn weird, but in a good way.

# # #

“So, how’s Nebraska?”

Castiel’s sprawled on his couch after a day of arranging and rearranging the room that’s supposed to be his office.  He quit his job entirely, but if he’s going to be here for at least a year, he might as well have a place to pretend like he might work again.  

“You know how Nebraska is, Gabriel.  You’re the one who picked the place and flew out here to do the paperwork.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t  _ stay  _ there.  I mean, can you imagine?  Eesh.”   

“Hm.”  Castiel glares up at his ceiling.  He’s been here a little over a week now, and every day presents a new kind of culture shock, but something about his brother’s tone rubs him wrong.  Like it’s personal.  “It’s actually not terrible.  I mean, I have to go out for my own groceries, and I’m still waiting for the cable guy to show up, and there’s nowhere to go running in the mornings, but...yeah.”  

“Sounds like you’re fitting right in.”  

“Yeah, not so much.”  Castiel snorts.  “I went to the Post Office yesterday, and when I came out there were five people staring at my car.”

“Left the election stickers on, huh?”

“How’d you guess?”

“Had a feeling.”  Gabriel pauses.  “Wait, five people?  Isn’t that more than half the county?”

“Yeah, keep laughing.  Your birthday’s coming, and I know a guy who knows a guy with a hog farm.”

“Touche.”

# # #

Cas cooks this time: margherita pizza from scratch with a sixer of pale ale to wash it down.  Dean’s helping with the dishes when the question drops.  

“So I’ve been meaning to ask. What’s the tattoo for?”

“That?” He says, lifting his hand to look at the fuzzy, slightly off-center dots between the first knuckles of his thumb and forefinger.  “That’s seven years’ luck right there.”  

There’s an awkward pause before Cas starts to apologize, but Dean waves him off.  

“Nah, it’s…”  He dries the last dish and sets it in the drainer.  “Tell you what: I’ll tell you how I got this if you tell me about Mrs. Illinois.”

Cas purses his lips.  He turns, opens a cabinet, and brings out a bottle of scotch.  “Get two glasses out of the cupboard.”  

He does.

# # #

Castiel wills his hands not to shake as he pours their drinks, as he passes Dean his glass.  They’re back on his couch, television off, house silent except for their breathing.

He contemplates downing his glass in one gulp, but it’s not telling the story that’s going to make him want to drink. It’s what he fears will happen after.

“So, uh, my family?  We’re, uh, Catholic,” he starts, wondering if maybe leading with context will help.  “Ton of siblings, the whole thing.  My dad’s a pretty big deal out on the East Coast.  My, uh, cousin ran for president in 2016…”

Dean blinks.  “L.C. Morningstar’s your cousin?”

“If it helps, I voted for the other guy.”  He pauses, smiles faintly when Dean laughs.  “Anyway, growing up like that, it affects what you do.  There’s pressure to, um…  Well, to live up to certain expectations.”

“Good grades, good job, get married, have kids.”

“Yeah.  Which, uh, I did.  Well, except the kids thing.”  He takes a bigger gulp of his drink than he probably should, but he wants the burn.  The absolution.  “Almost didn’t. Thought about being a priest for a little while.”

“So when you said you were Catholic, you meant  _ really  _ Catholic.”

“Yes and no.”  He closes his eyes.  “The Church teaches that some people should...that we should be celibate.  And at least as a priest--”  Castiel makes a helpless gesture, gives Dean a sideways glance, watches the penny drop.

“You’re gay.”  Dean’s words are soft.  

“I tried so hard not to be.  I prayed.  I dated women.  I thought about therapy, but that would mean admitting to someone that I was…”  He sighs.  “When I met Daphne, we clicked.  We got to be good friends, she asked me out, and I thought, here it is.  Here’s God’s way out for me.”

“And?”

Castiel shrugs.  “It wasn’t.  I suppose He was merciful in the sense that Daphne couldn’t conceive -- we tried that too -- but the longer we stayed married, the more trapped I felt.  And eventually I…”  He finishes his glass, pours another.  “Hookup apps started getting press right about then, and I thought, just once to get it out of my system.  Which, as you might imagine, is not what happened.”

“How’d she find out?”

“Honestly?  Chlamydia.”

Dean sputters.  “No shit?”

“No shit.”  He refills Dean’s glass.  “Which, as you can imagine, raised a lot of uncomfortable questions, and resulted in something of an ugly civil divorce.  The church annulment is still a work in progress.”

“And so you moved to Nebraska?”

“No, I moved to Nebraska because I told my brother Gabriel I’d give anything to drop everything for a while.  Let’s just say he’s got a lot of disposable income and an odd sense of humor.”

“You could have said no.”

“I suppose, but I didn’t.”  He adjusts his seat on the couch.  “So yes. Here I am.”

# # #

“Yeah, here you are.”  Dean rubs his thumb anxiously over his tattoo.  “Guess it’s my turn.”

“Guess so.”

He looks down into his drink, figures he might as well just rip the Band-Aid off.  “You ever hear of Parchman Farm?”

“The prison where the Freedom Riders wound up in the 60’s?”

“Yep.  I, uh, did almost eight years there for burglary and possession.  Would have been more, but I took a plea deal and got out early for good behavior.”  He shifts forward a little, holds his hand so Cas can see.  “Four dots for four walls, and that’s me in the middle.”

“I can honestly say I didn’t expect that.”

“Yeah, well.”  Dean shrugs, settles back into his seat without meeting Cas’ eyes.  “Truth is, the only excuse I have is that I was in a bad place after my dad died.  I started using, made a ton of shitty choices, and got busted because of a bad tail light.”  

“Your father--”

“Got drunk and shot himself.”  

“Obvious yet uncomfortable question,” Cas says, breaking the silence.  “Should we not be drinking?”

Dean huffs out a laugh.  “Drinking’s fine.”

“Duly noted.”

“Anyway, one of the counselors down at Parchman -- real smart lady named Missouri -- she helped me get my head on straight.  Talked me into writing to my uncle Bobby.  He got me in touch with Bill and Ellen and my brother, Sam.”

“Ellen your boss?”

“Yeah.  Family friend, too.  Her husband, Bill, was in the Marines with my dad.  Anyway, Bill died of cancer about a year before I got out.  When I did, Ellen had a job and an apartment waiting for me here in Surlow.”  He drags his fingers through his hair.  “And yeah, I know how lucky I am.  A lot of guys come out with nothing, can’t find work.  Here at least, I have a chance at a life.”

“Sounds like we both got pretty lucky.”

“Yeah, but only one of us got chlamydia.”

Cas’ laughter is the best sound Dean’s heard in a long-ass while.

# # #

Castiel sits alone in a pew at St. Gregory’s.

He isn’t sure he wants to go to Mass here.  He isn’t sure he wants to go to Mass at all, honestly.  He’s wasted so much of his life believing he’s broken, but of late he keeps coming back to the 139th Psalm:

_ For it was you who who formed my inward parts; you knit me together in my mother’s womb.  I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. _

“You made me, so you know what I am,” he whispers, eyes fixed on the crucifix that hangs behind the altar.  “You know all the ways I’ve fought it, and the sins that came from that effort. I was taught to cultivate my conscience, and I think...I think accepting your will means accepting these parts of myself, and to do my best to be virtuous in my relationships in the spirit of your law.”

He swallows, glances over his shoulder to make sure he’s still alone.

“Of course, if I’m wrong, I should probably apologize in advance for the fornication and homosexual acts.  If that’s the case, maybe you’ll see fit to let me know?”

He leaves a twenty in the offering box on the way out.

# # #

“Burger bag again, Winchester?”  Meg pops her gum and glowers at him from her post at the bar.  “You working up to a heart attack or what?”

“Nah, he’s taking ‘em over to the new guy’s place.”  Ash staples the bag shut.  “Rufus said Dean’s truck’s over there more often than it ain’t these days.”

“Rufus needs to mind his own goddamn business,” Dean grumbles.  “He shouldn’t be able to see my truck out there anyway.”  

“What’s wrong?” Meg sneers.  “You don’t want to be seen out there?  You sweet on him or something?”

Dean rolls his eyes, tries to ignore the wave of cold panic that rises up through him, and turns his attention to Ash.  “How do you even work with her, man?”

“I watch a lot of kung fu movies.”

“Good to know.”  He hands Ash a twenty, takes his change, and spends the whole drive over to Cas’ place  _ not  _ having a gay panic.  

This isn’t the first time.  He remembers Danny Hurley, who played basketball and had calves that made Dean weak in the knees.  Yeah, Rhonda’s the one he dated, and he liked her too, but he only got close to her to be closer to Danny, and…

Sid.  Married Sid who lived across the hall from Dean’s first apartment and listened to good music and shared his weed and kissed him once in the laundry room because they were drunk and Sid was giving him shit for being pretty, and…

Victor the night security guy at the warehouse where Dean worked for a little while.  They shared cigarettes on breaks, even though Dean didn’t really smoke.  Victor never knew why he’d ask, never knew that Dean only wanted to kiss him, to be kissed…

He likes women.  He likes men.  It ain’t news, but he’d probably have a better handle on it if he hadn’t spent most of his twenties and the first couple of years of his thirties in a goddamn prison.  

Dean pulls into Cas’ driveway -- the box still says Sinclair on it, he should help Cas fix that -- and tries to collect his thoughts.  

# # #

“Hey,” Castiel says as he opens the door and steps back.  “I was looking through Netflix.  They don’t have Star Wars, but--”

“I’m bisexual,” Dean says abruptly, feet still firmly planted on the outside of the threshold.  

Castiel blinks, gobsmacked.  Dean’s shoulders drop and he laughs, a kind of hysterical giggle that leaves him looking unsteady on his feet.  Castiel steps in and bundles him close in his arms.  He ignores the sound of the burger bag falling to the ground when Dean’s arms close around him.

“Never said that out loud,” Dean murmurs against Castiel’s hair.  

He gives Dean a squeeze.  “You want to come in?”

Dean nods.  Breaks away and bends down for the burgers.  Carries them inside while Castiel closes the door.

“I’ll get the plates and the beer,” he says, motioning for Dean to settle in on the couch.  It gives him a moment to compose himself, try to figure out why what just happened happened.  When he emerges, he finds Dean on the couch, fidgeting anxiously with the bottom button of his flannel shirt.

“You okay?”

Dean shrugs.  “I could use a drink.”

Castiel passes him a bottle, watches as Dean downs a good third of it, then takes a seat beside him.

“That’s not what I meant to say.  At the door.”

“Should we strike it from the record?”

“Hell no.”

“Okay.”

Dean picks at the label of his bottle.  “What I wanted to say was hi.  And then I was going to bitch about Netflix because I knew they didn’t have Star Wars.  And then we’d have shot the shit for a while, and at some point, I was going to ask what kind of guys you’re into.”

“Oh.”

“And then I was, uh.”  Dean’s cheeks flush, and his ears go a little pink.  “If I figured I had a chance, I was going to ask if maybe you’d want to go out sometime.  Not like there’s a lot of options out here, but there’s a carnival coming through a county over, and there’s a drive-in up in Neligh, and that’s a drive, but--”

“Yes.”

Dean looks up.  “What?”

“Yes.  Yes, I would absolutely like to go out with you sometime.”

“Oh.”  Dean looks down at his hands.  Swallows.  “Okay.  Cool.”

Castiel puts his beer down on the floor beside his feet, then scoots over so that they’re close enough to touch.  He rests his hand on his own knee, but lets his pinky brush the seam of Dean’s jeans where they crease.  When Dean’s hand joins his, as their fingers lace together, it’s like a cage opens up inside him.  Like his whole chest is filled with butterflies.  

# # #

Dean dozes, nestled into the blankets like they’ll protect him from the morning sunshine, but it’s the smell of coffee that lures him awake.  He sucks in a long breath through his nose, eyes closed, and stretches before it clicks.  

This is not his bed.

“I’d say I didn’t mean to wake you, but I didn’t know if you had work this morning,” Cas tells him as he sits down on the mattress beside him.  He’s holding two cups of coffee.  

“S’Tuesday, right?” he says, sitting up and taking the second mug from Cas’ hands.

“Yeah.”

“Then I got nothing but time.”

Last night comes into focus slowly.  His confession to Cas, asking him out.  Awkward lukewarm burgers while they talked.  Curling up on the couch together until they were both dozing.  Climbing the stairs at three in the morning because, oh god, their backs were killing them.  Falling asleep in Cas’ arms.

“You gonna stay on the other side of the mattress all morning?”

The corners of Cas’ mouth tick up into a shy smile.  “Didn’t know how you’d feel about waking up in my bed when we haven’t even kissed.”

“Well, your mattress is pretty damn nice,” he teases, which earns him a roll of the eyes from Cas.  He puts his mug down on the nightstand and crosses the bed on his knees to join Cas.  “As for the kissing part…”

He licks his lips, leans in.  

Cas’ mouth is warm, lips soft, the rasp of his stubble rough but pleasant.  Dean manages to take the mug from Cas’ hand and set it down on a shelf before taking Cas’ face in his hands and deepening the kiss, his tongue seeking Cas’ own.  

It feels like home.

**Author's Note:**

> Keeping this under 5k was a special kind of pain. There's so much more I could write about these two.
> 
> Some notes:   
> \- Surlow is a fictional town, but if it were real, it'd be situated somewhere in or near Custer County.  
> \- The town square is loosely based on the square in my hometown, which is _not_ in Custer County. Or even Nebraska.   
>  \- But seriously, if you've ever been in a gas station or convenience store in Rural America, you understand about the flags and eagles. _So many flags and eagles_.   
>  \- The Sinclair place is named for Cuthbert Sinclair.  
> \- The answer to Dean's crossword question is eels.  
> \- I'm not even a little sorry for bringing in Matt Pike from Bugs, or naming his tarantula after Samandriel's vessel. If the universe didn't want me to do things like this, they wouldn't have double-cast Tyler Johnston.  
> \- I fucking love Gabriel. That is all.   
> \- I acknowledge as an author that Catholicism is a Very Big Umbrella, and that LGBTQ Catholics can have much more positive experiences than Cas does. Cas' experience is based on a composite of people I've known who struggled in that faith, and other Christian denominations, before coming out.  
> \- I wish I'd had more time to really establish Cas' family. They're like some unholy blend of the Romneys and the Kennedys.   
> \- In addition to Dean's quincunx tattoo, I considered also having him have the words STAY DOWN across his knuckles, but figured I was overselling it.  
> \- One of Dean's cellmates during the course of his stay at Parchman was a guy named Benny Lafitte.   
> \- St. Gregory's is named for St. Gregory Neocaesarea (aka Gregory Thaumaturgis, or Gregory the Wonderworker), who is considered a patron of hopeless causes.  
> \- The Psalm that Castiel reflects on is one I've seen cited in Catholic discussions about squaring being Catholic and LGBTQ. Likewise, the matter of conscience vs. teaching is one that comes up when things like this (or, say, contraception) come up. I acknowledge that the matter is thorny, but I didn't make it halfway through Catechism and do a minor in Religious Studies not to use this stuff.  
> \- Yeah, that's a version of Sid from the suburbs during Dean's life with Lisa, and security!Victor's last name is Henriksen.  
> \- But seriously, the 5k cap was fucking terrible. All that wailing you've been hearing at the edge of the void was probably me.


End file.
